


Taking Care of Hamish

by Alphinss



Series: Self Isolation Collection [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adorable Hamish Watson-Holmes, Army, Baby Hamish Watson-Holmes, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, John Watson in Afghanistan, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Parenthood, Parentlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Case, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:48:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24071656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alphinss/pseuds/Alphinss
Summary: John is gone, the army needs him. Sherlock is left raising their son by himself.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Self Isolation Collection [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1706086
Comments: 1
Kudos: 73





	Taking Care of Hamish

“John” 

The voice echoed round the empty flat. 

“No John” Sherlock muttered to himself. It had been years. And yet every time Sherlock walked into the flat, he expected to see the man. He sighed and checked his watch. 

It was nearing three. There was no other reason for him to be in the flat. He may as well go and pick up Hamish. Being a little early never hurt anyone. He was sure the boy would be delighted after the debacle with Mycroft last week. 

Sherlock locked the door behind him. He started walking. The school was only ten minutes away. 

Sherlock and John had moved into the two bedroom flat together during university. John’s fourth year and Sherlock’s second. It had been glorious. 

They’d lived in the mess, with Sherlock putting eyeballs in the microwave and running after criminals all around London for six years. All through John’s degree and then his residency training. 

Hamish had been decided on while John was in his residency. Not that the boy had really been a decision. Hamish had been a sure part of their life from the moment John had seen him. There was no going back from those tearful grey eyes. Not when even John had been able to deduce that the boy was not in a happy home. The broken arm and bruises could tell you that much. 

Mycroft had been quick when Sherlock reluctantly promised him three free cases. And so the two year old Hamish Williams had become Hamish Watson-Holmes not a week after John had first met him at the hospital. Mycroft had also told them that their marriage was also a necessity if they were to have a son. The paperwork was put through on the same day. 

But that had been five years ago; with John being in Afghanistan for three of those, home for a total of ninety days in that time. Only eight percent. Eight percent of John’s life had been spent with him. Well 8.219178 to be exact. Not that Sherlock was being exact. No. He decidedly wasn’t. 

Sherlock arrived outside the school gates. He had another fifteen minutes of standing in the playground with a bunch of over eager parents and their nattering. He took out his phone.

“Oh, Mr Holmes” The sickly sweet voice of Vanessa Graham. Sherlock cast her a glance. 

Single mother, divorced, that he already knew, two dogs, knew, and a daughter, also knew. Melissa was in Hamish’s class. 

Sherlock picked up on some new things. Date last week, didn’t go well. Attempt and fail at initiating something more intimate. New shoes. Started smoking again…. The deductions keep going. Sherlock ignored most of them. 

“Good Afternoon Miss Graham” Sherlock raised an unsatisfied eyebrow. The woman was far too obvious in her attempts. Sherlock was really not interested. 

“How’s Hamish doing? Good to see you picking him up.” 

Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes. “He is doing well.” Sherlock didn’t expand on that.

The woman asked him more questions. Sherlock prayed for the time to go faster. He grunted and hummed in response. An occasional word. When would the woman understand that he just wasn’t interested. 

“Daddy” An excited voice shouted across the playground and soon Sherlock had a seven year old wrapping himself around his waist. His seven year old. His smile sparkled as he looked up at his father. 

“Good afternoon Hamish. How was school?” Sherlock’s voice was soft. It was not a voice he would have ever used before Hamish. But now it was the only one he used around he boy. 

“We did an experiment daddy. We watched a glove fill with air.” the young boys hands showed the inflation as they expanded in the same way the gloves had “It was because of the sweets and the coke together.” 

Sherlock hummed in reply, taking his little boy’s hand. They walked home together. His little boy was so perfect. His flop of blonde hair and his intelligent, energetic grey eyes. Sherlock smiled at him. He was so lucky. 

* * *

Sherlock looked at the corpse with a feeling of glee. It had been so long; far too long since he had had a good case and the flash of pink was a bright point in his life. A good distraction. He surely needed one. What with the anniversary of his and John’s meeting, the delayed leave. He needed something to keep his mind busy and this was it. 

His brain worked fast, deductions racing from his tongue. A pink case. The perfect clue. The yard just hadn’t figured it out yet. 

It had taken Sherlock two hours to find the case. It hadn’t been difficult, but his coat had smelled a bit as the taxi race back to the flat. He needed to pick up his son. Thankfully Hamish had science club on Thursday evenings, but that didn’t mean that he had unlimited time. 

Sherlock threw the case in the flat, quickly changing his clothes as he went. Smelling like rubbish was not a great way to greet his son. Then Sherlock walked at a pace nearing a run toward the school. If Mycroft picked up Hamish again this month he didn’t want to have to deal with the results. The British Government had a soft spot for his nephew and Sherlock didn’t want to deal with the sugar high that resulted from it.

Sherlock made it to the playground, panting, and with mere minutes to spare. Hamish came out of the doors with a smile and a bounce in his step. It had obviously been a good day. Sherlock grinned in return. It had been a good day for him too. The case was really starting to get interesting. He took his little boy’s hand and squeezed it tightly. 

“What did you do in science club?” 

Sherlock listened to Hamish babble. He was such an amazing child. 

They were about five minutes into their walk when Sherlock’s phone rang. He sighed. 

“What is it Lestrade?” 

“We know you’ve got the case Sherlock. I’m not an idiot. You either tell me or the information or I’ll pull a drugs bust. But I’m sure Hamish would not enjoy that and neither would I. But sometimes you give me no other choice, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock sighed. “Come after eight. Hamish will be in bed by then.” 

“Thank you Sherlock.” Lestrade sighed in relief. 

Sherlock hung up. 

He had a pleasant dinner with Hamish, both of them ignoring the pink case, although Sherlock was sure that his son had noticed it. Hamish was better at not mentioning things than Sherlock was. He got it from his papa. 

Hamish had his forced shower, the boy seemed to have a thing against bathing. Sherlock suspected that it had something to so with the fact that it was Sherlock telling him to do it. Sherlock didn’t have a problem with rebellion. After all, he himself was far from a conformist. However he did have a problem with his little rebel smelling to high heaven. Hamish would just have to find another outlet for his anarchy. 

Sherlock read his son a story and smiled as Hamish dozed off before the end. Reading aloud was never something that Sherlock thought he would find pleasure in. But after he’d read to the small and scared two year old who was terrified of everything and seen the small smile on the tiny face, there had been no going back. Reading would be a nightly occurrence as long as Hamish would let him.

Sherlock had settled on the sofa with a cup of tea. It wasn’t as good as John’s tea, never would be, but it was soothing in his hands. The warmth of it reminded him of John, his friend, his only friend. He missed him. 

However Sherlock didn’t have time to wallow too much. There was a knock on the door. Sherlock pulled it open with a small sigh, his tea sloshing at its harsh thud against the coffee table. 

“Good evening Sherlock” 

Sherlock only grunted and cast his eyes over to the case that sat in one corner. 

“I haven’t touched it you know, well except to get it out of the bin.” 

Lestrade didn’t seem convinced, his eyebrow raised. 

“And I had to go pick up Hamish.”

The man smiled and nodded, at the mention of the boy’s name. That seemed too convince him at least. 

“We should take it back to the station…” 

Lestrade trailed off at the look of utter distaste that Sherlock threw his way. 

“Sherlock” the tone was harsh and Sherlock had to wonder what words the detective had spoken with Mycroft before he had entered the flat. Sherlock rubbed at his temples and had to repress the urge to just ignore the detective inspector. He had been looking forward to this case. 

“What is it Detective-inspector?” Sherlock sighed. 

“It’s not just you anymore, you know.” Oh yes, he had definitely got that line from Mycroft. Throw in a little guilt trip, a little emotional manipulation, it always works on my brother who never quite grasped the concept of not feeling. 

“I know” Sherlock couldn’t suppress the slight growl in his voice, the curl of his lips in a sneer.

“Then there won’t be a problem with us taking it to the station.” 

Sherlock cast a glance at the case, then another at the wooden staircase. “No, I suppose not.” 

* * *

The cab had come later that night, Mrs Hudson insisting that he couldn’t just leave Hamish sleeping upstairs, and that he couldn’t just be taking taxi’s all over the city with a young boy at home, no matter Sherlock’s insistence at his innocence. 

“Five minutes Sherlock, just tell him to leave. I’m not your babysitter, you know.” 

Sherlock had trudged down the stairs with a sigh, a headache beginning to creep, and mourning the loss of the perfect pair of thumbs that he had saved in the freezer just for nights as these when he had cases stolen from under him and no John to talk to. 

Then the gun had come out. It wasn’t a real gun, nothing more than a novelty lighter, but it certainly managed to grab Sherlock’s attention. He sat in the back of the taxi. This man may not have a real gun, but that didn’t make him any less dangerous, he was a murderer after all. 

“So, where are we going?” Sherlock kept his eyes hard and his voice steady. He didn’t think of Hamish. 

“You’ll just have to wait and see Mr Holmes.” 

Sherlock didn’t have to wait and see anything. This man knew where he lived, knew where his son lived. Sherlock had taken a chance long ago and ended with a needle in his arm and a six month stay in a rehabilitation centre. Sherlock couldn’t take the look on John’s face of him taking chances again, he didn’t wait and see, not anymore.

The phone in his coat pocket sent message after message as Sherlock humoured the man driving the car, listening to convoluted story and the tale of a mysterious benefactor, a true fairy tale, not that Sherlock would ever be reading it to Hamish. 

The taxi stopped, an abandoned hospital, how cliche. 

“Ready to see the show Mr Holmes.” 

Sherlock didn’t say a word, but stood and followed behind the man. 

Two pills, how unoriginal, how very boring. Sherlock sighed with frustration, the case that had seemed so promising, now in tatters of threats and poison. How tedious. 

“So Mr Holmes, which shall it be, which pill shall you take?” 

“Neither” Sherlock tried to force humour into his tone even as he felt like taking the pills and force-feeding both to the man. “I chose the gun.” 

“Are you sure Mr Holmes.” 

“Quite sure, the gun please.” 

The lighter flicked, the flame clicking from the end. 

“Well, I shall be leaving.” Sherlock stood. 

“Do you think you could have beaten me? Would you have chosen the right pill?” the man was trying to pull him back in, playing at Sherlock’s need to be right. But he didn’t need to be right, not anymore, no there were more important things than proving your own intelligence. 

Sherlock didn’t turn around. “It doesn’t matter.” 

The yard turned up with cars and cuffs, the man taken in and the evidence of the dead woman’s phone in his pocket ensuring his position in back of the van. 

“I was surprised at the contact you know, brother.” Mycroft, umbrella suit and extra two, no three pounds looked at Sherlock with a tiger’s smile. 

Sherlock didn’t say anything, looking only as the police cleared the area and collected their evidence from the taxi. 

“I was rather expecting you to have swallowed one of those pills and been convulsing on the floor by the time we arrived. A rather pleasant surprise I suppose.” The umbrella twirled. 

Sherlock hummed. “I may detest your presence, brother, but I value my family’s safety.” 

“Oh yes, this anonymous benefactor, all rather mysterious.” Mycroft paused. “Do you plan to tell John?” 

“What I tell John is none of your concern Mycroft.” Sherlock snarled. “I’m going home.” 

“Do try to stay out of danger, brother” was called after Sherlock’s retreating form. 

Sherlock found a taxi and for once decided that he actually did need sleep that night. He curled up beneath the cold sheets and his dreams were filled with blue eyes, cropped hair and a deep laugh. This was why he didn’t like sleep. 


End file.
